The meeting drags on, practicalities discussed in abstract terms.
My sister’s plans, her needs, are detailed, specific.
Mine remain vague, undefined, as if I’m an afterthought in my own life.
I try to interject, to assert my own aspirations, but the conversation flows around me like water around a stone.
The frustration simmers beneath my skin, a quiet roar of injustice.
I’m not angry at my sister; she’s just living in the world they built for her.
But the realization stings, that my future is tethered to what’s left after her needs are met.
My mother reaches across the table, a conciliatory gesture.
“We’re proud of you too,” she insists, but the words lack conviction.
“It just seems like…” I start, but my voice falters.
